


i pray that love don't strike twice

by cigarettekisses



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cigarettekisses/pseuds/cigarettekisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>if you're expecting a happy ending, don't. just don't.</p>
    </blockquote>





	i pray that love don't strike twice

**Author's Note:**

> if you're expecting a happy ending, don't. just don't.

  _red lipstick, rose petals, heart break_

_ i was his marilyn monroe _

**i. red lipstick**

the night is still young but he feels weary. his face hurts from smiling. 

he wonders if the corners of his mouth will rip, tear and split his face in half. he wonders if it will bleed. if the blood will drip and stain his teeth. if it will scare the people away. 

he wonders—no he begs.

it’s a blur, a haze of people talking to other people. mindless, drunk chatter. the smell and the taste of alcohol, burning his throat, numbing his tongue.

it numbs the pain too, it numbs the shame.

he grabs another glass from the waiter passing by, maybe it’s his third, maybe it’s his hundredth. it doesn’t matter. he doesn’t care. no one cares.

he lets himself be led—pulled—from one place to another. he stopped listening a long time ago. learned to tune out of conversations and just smile. smile bright, as bright as he can, even though he knows his eyes say otherwise. but he’s a liar. a professional one at that.

he doesn’t belong here. he never will. but he’s dressed fancy. his ankles aren’t showing, the man won’t let him.

he doesn’t remember who the man is, but in the grand scheme of things does his name even matter? 

he’s a fake. no amount of dress shirts and blazers and leather shoes is going to change who he is.

he used to think of it as a mask, now he realizes it’s turned into an armour. his skin, his skin feels too tight against his body. he feels like crawling out of it. show the people his skeleton, spill blood on the red carpet. he wonders if it will be of a different colour. if anyone will notice that he’s bleeding on the velvet red.

he’s not real. but so are all these people around him.

perfect clothes, perfect body, perfect faces, perfect careers and perfect relationships.

perfect, perfect, perfect. blah blah blah.

he may not be rich, but they are just as filthy as he is.

stretched skin that can’t manage a smile, manic and pitiful yet scary. he wonders if they have fangs underneath those smirks. 

red lipstick and rosy blush on, to hide the grief, to hide the pale skin, to hide that they’re no longer alive. none of them are.

breasts that are rock hard. they don’t feel pleasure, not anymore. they show off every inch of skin, tanned and taut like varnished violins. they cackle at each other, judging glares of daggers. as if they’re not crying themselves to sleep. bare, vulnerable and untouched. 

they talk about their husbands businesses when left alone. when they’re no longer standing beside him like a trophy. they talk about businesses—louis smirks—as if they don’t know about the other  _mistresses._

but he can’t say anything to them. even though he knows they’re judging him. even when their voices are dripping in condescension when he’s let off of his leash to speak to them. he’s an arm candy himself.

dolled up and polished to be presented, to be held, to be paid.

he’s a puppet.

an empty shell with strings attached to his limbs. he can’t breathe on his own and he wonders if he still has to. if there are still remains of what he used to be under his skin. 

he wanted to be an actor. he dreamt of having his name in bright lights, shining brighter than the city lights, brighter than the stars. 

he’s an actor anyways. he just never expected to play the role of an older man’s little boy. never in his wildest dreams. now, he doesn’t even dream anymore.

**ii. rose petals**

he still remembers the first thing zayn ever said to him. “come here doll. i don’t bite,” with a tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. 

he looks away. he knows he isn’t allowed. there’s yet another older man who’s holding him against his side. pulling him close, as if he’ll ever get lost. he wishes he could.

this man promised him fame. he hopes he’s not like all the other men. 

they all promised him fame after all.

they shower him with jewellery, with fancy clothes, dragging him from one event to another saying he has to be there so he’ll be recognized, so he’ll be famous.

louis knows it doesn’t work that way. but they convince him, saying it’s his chance. maybe someone will spot him. maybe. maybe. he stopped believing that a long time ago. as long as he’s luxurious and he’s tanned and there’s a jacuzzi waiting for him at home, does it matter?

curiosity never did louis any good. he stopped asking questions a long time ago. that’s what brought him into this anyway. being curious, searching for answers, dreaming. dreaming is bad. sooner or later it turns into nightmares. he was ambitious, he wanted a lot of things. 

but he looks anyway. and he sees him again. brown eyes, devious. dangerous.

he has a smirk on his face. louis wonders if he’s always like that. if he ever smiles like his face is going to split in half. if he ever faked a smile like louis did, does. maybe he got tired of faking it, maybe he never tried at all.

he excuses himself from the older man’s grip. he knows that the man can see who he’s looking at. louis doesn’t care. he doesn’t care about anything anymore. 

they don’t say anything to each other. he follows him to his car and they drive. they drive and louis doesn’t bother coming home again to the man he left. 

the faster zayn drives, the more he feels alive. he thinks it’s ironic. how feeling like he’s going to die anytime makes him feel alive.

**iii. heart break**

he stares at the ring on his finger. taking it off and putting it on, over and over again. 

it’s been a year. zayn said he can keep it. keep it until he says yes.

_i want to. i want to. now. but the question isn’t the same anymore._

zayn said he loves—loved—him. louis laughed. laughed as loud as he can. it was probably a break down. he thought poison would drip out of his mouth. he thought his rotten heart would come out. maybe venom will come out of his pores. will it be black? that’s always how they described it in movies, and novels, not that louis reads anymore. imagining another life hurts. it hurts too much when you dream of another life, another escape. it’s like opening a door that doesn’t exist. 

louis knows about him. liam.

he knows that zayn just lets him stay inside their flat for the sake of friendship, maybe not even that. maybe it’s attachment. it’s hard to get rid of people and routine easily.

they fell into natural rhythm.

a kiss, a fuck, a “see you later”.

like a song, just like every fucking song that exists, rhythm ends. 

they fell into it naturally, they’re falling out of it naturally too.

he puts the ring on. and he leaves it there. it’s going to be the last time. he can feel it.

zayn comes home later. he looks ragged and worn out. louis wonders if he feels tired just knowing that he’s coming home to louis. 

“i missed you,” louis smiles.

_i miss you._

his chest tightens.

“i was with some friends,” zayn mumbles. 

_you were with liam. stop lying to me._

he smiles. louis knows it’s fake. 

“i thought you got lost,” he tries to joke.

_i’m losing you._

he brushes his fingers against the ring on his knuckle. he closes his eyes, breathing deep. when he opens his eyes, he takes it all in. this is it. this is goodbye.

he walks toward him, pushing him against the wall. 

he pins his wrists, and zayn complies, louis doesn’t cry.

he undresses him, louis sees the bruises littering his neck, collarbone, his chest, it’s everywhere. louis knows it’s not his. he doesn’t say anything. 

they make it to bed. zayn’s eyes are blank. he wonders if he looks at liam the way he used to look at louis.

he bites on his neck. wondering if he can bite deep enough and rip flesh. he wants to taste blood. he wants to know if zayn is still alive.

he pushes into him, zayn stays pliant. he doesn’t moan loudly. he doesn’t groan. all that louis can feel is zayn’s heat and heartbeat against him. zayn gasps and comes. he pushes louis off him.

zayn doesn’t ask to hold him like he used to, he lies on his side, back turned to louis.

louis closes his eyes. he doesn’t fall asleep.


End file.
